But for the first time in maybe my whole life, I’m not thinking about food. Not thinking about anything, in fact. Timothy Blake has vanished, leaving only sensations. My hammering heart, the smell of her. The sweat everywhere except the scar tissue on her chest and throat, which stays dry and smooth. My hardness, her heat. Our ragged breaths. We stay semi-clothed—her black mesh sports bra, my dirty jeans knotted around my ankles—but, even so, there’s a lot of flesh on display. And I don’t want any of it, at least not in an unwholesome way. I’ve discovered a different sort of hunger. Maybe sex takes so much focus that there’s no room for my addiction.

Or maybe it’s about her. Maybe I want her more than I want to eat.

I finish much sooner than I intend to, throbbing and twitching as she clenches around me. When she rolls over, I try to get her across the line, but I can’t find the right spot. Eventually she nudges my clumsy fingers aside and works herself into a silent seizure, her teeth clenched, her brow furrowed. With her free hand she crushes mine. I watch, mesmerised.

Soon we’re side by side on the floor, staring at the ceiling and breathing in unison, like a single creature with eight limbs. An octopus, legs tangled around each other. We lie there a long time.

‘So,’ she says finally, ‘that happened.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘I didn’t do it for you.’

We fall silent.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘for pushing you away.’

She seems like she’s waiting for something more.

Oh, right. ‘And for lying to you,’ I add.

‘You should be,’ she says, but I can hear the edge of a smile. ‘It was a dumb thing to do.’

‘Yeah.’

She rests a hand on my bare chest. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I guess you’ve made up for it. No harm, no foul.’

I stroke her shoulder for a minute, fascinated by the smoothness of her skin. Lightning flashes outside the window, thunder a few seconds later.

‘You know, this doesn’t have to be a thing,’ she says. I hear a hint of nervousness in the implied question. ‘If you don’t want it to be.’

‘I want it to be a thing,’ I say. ‘I really do.’

A pause.

‘Do you?’ I ask.

She lifts my hand to her lips, and gently kisses the spot where my thumb used to be. The contact sends a rush of warmth up my spine.

‘Right now I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time,’ she says.

‘Me too.’

I love her. It’s the first time I’ve ever allowed myself to think those words. Before, the hopelessness of the idea would have flattened me.

‘Why me?’ I ask.

She looks at me and grins. ‘Fishing for compliments, much?’